How had been the hillsWhen the temple was not, I just think about, How had it been the architects and artisans at worn, Cutting, hammering and shaping the temple, How had it been the duration of time, Who can but say itIf the things lie in hiddenUnder the wrap of mythology?

There is none to say about their historiography, The year of making and construction, The engineering and skill applied in, The sculptors and artisans at work, Everything but buried deepIn the womb of history, Archaeology and myth and mysticism.

Pulled in between faith and doubt, Faith taking it back to the hoary days of yoreWhile doubt ascribing it to the sixteenth century, Whatever be that I want not to debate it, But the structure plain and pyramidalWith the jyotirlingam insideAnd the inner top with a n eight-petalled lotusCalled Chandrachuda Mani.

Into the door leading to the sanctum sanctorumJust a small door leads toAs the passage for coming and going Of the worshippers and devotees, The stonework stupendous, But not so decorated as the South Indian temples, The rock-cut pillars hinging the sideways, The space, the verandah adjoining the templeAt the entrance of the main temple.

The jyotirlingam, the pillar of light in the midst of it all, Cylindrical in form, The thing of sadhna and meditation, Take the rudraksha rosay and count itIn the complexWith the face-to-face Parvati templeAnd that too similar to type and tenor.

At the crest of the temple, lies a golden pitcher, A moonstone mounted on to from the inside, Fitted and set intoAnd from which the droplets of waterFall upon the jyotirlingam, Whatever be the thingsBut the temple an architectural specimenOf rock-cut temples..